Jet Lag

“We gave it our best shot,” Cotten said to John, taking her eyes from the road a minute as they drove to Washington from Camp David.

“But it wasn’t enough.” He leaned his head back against the seat.

“Maybe President Brennan just needs time to think about all that scripture you quoted before he reconsiders. It was a lot for him to take in at one time. I watched his face, his eyes, as you talked, and he definitely seemed to be grasping what you were saying. Near the end, he appeared downright nervous.”

“Maybe,” John said.

“You look tired. Why don’t you use this time to rest a little? Jet lag has to be hitting you.”

Without lifting his head from the headrest, John turned to look at her. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, right. It wouldn’t kill you to doze off while I drive. Then I won’t feel bad about asking you to go with me to dinner when we get to the city.” She grinned at him. “Go on. Humor me.”

Cotten turned on the radio and found a station playing smooth jazz. The light piano and strings hummed along with the song of the tires on the road. A few minutes later she looked over at John. His beautiful blue eyes were closed.

___

They checked in at the Washington Dulles Airport Marriott, both of their rooms on the second floor.

“Say in about forty-five minutes,” Cotten said as they got off the elevator. “I need to freshen up first. We can just grab a bite in the hotel restaurant if you like.”

“Better idea,” John said. “There’s a great Japanese restaurant about two miles from here. Feel like sushi?”

“Perfect. I’ll knock on your door when I’m fit to go out in public. How’s that?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Cotten slipped her card key in her door lock then swiftly removed it. The small green light flashed on, and she opened the door. “See you in a bit,” she said.

Over the years of reporting from every corner of the globe, she had gotten used to living out of a suitcase. Like always, she packed light and only clothes that didn’t wrinkle.

Cotten pulled the long-sleeved, black jersey sheath from the suitcase and hung it up in the bathroom to steam while she showered.

Poor John, she thought, turning on the water and adjusting the temperature to a comfortable hot. She stripped and stepped in the shower, letting the water cascade over her from the crown of her head to her toes. He was ragged from the trip from Rome to DC. He hadn’t stopped since early this morning, and he had added an additional six hours to a normal twenty-four because of the time zone difference.

After shampooing, lathering up, and shaving her legs, Cotten wrapped a towel around her head, turban style, and another around her body and got out of the shower. She stared at the steamed-up mirror. Someone who had stayed in the room previously had apparently steamed up the mirror during their stay and drawn a heart in the condensation. Like magic, the heart and the initials reappeared in the fog on the mirror. Maybe it was a honeymoon couple or a teenager missing her beau while she and family vacationed. There were hundreds of stories she could imagine.

Cotten dried her hair and got dressed. She didn’t wear much makeup, just some blush, mascara, and lipstick. She smoothed the clinging jersey dress over her hips.

Satisfied she was ready, Cotten picked up her handbag and left the room, heading down the hall to John’s.

She stopped in front of his door and knocked. When he didn’t answer she knocked again and called his name. Probably had the television on and didn’t hear her.

The door finally cracked open.

“John?”

He stepped out from behind the door, wearing his bathrobe.

“You take a nap, sleepyhead?”

“Yeah, I did. I hate to do this, but I think I’m going to have to beg off.”

“Boy, jet lag really took its toll.” Cotten stepped into the room, closed the door, and tossed her purse on the dresser. “Want me to order something from downstairs?”

“No, thanks. You go ahead. I think I’m going to call it a day. Sorry. I’m just whipped.”

“No problem. How about if I bring you something back when I come up?”

“No, no. I’m fine. Breakfast in the morning?”

“You got it,” Cotten said, retrieving her purse. “You call me when you get up.” She gave him a hug. “See you mañana.”

___

Cotten sat curled up in the chair watching the SNN late news and sipping on an Absolut over ice she picked up at the bar. She had on her comfort pajamas—a lightweight sweatshirt, sweatpants, and socks. The black dress lay in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. One black heel on its side, the other upright, her stockings and bra next to the shoes. She was disappointed they hadn’t gone to dinner, and she kicked herself for feeling that way. The poor man was exhausted.

She wondered if she had guessed right about Black Needles and the method it would be delivered. Had the attacks already started? Would Brennan see the light and launch measures to protect the country? She fully understood his hesitation. After all, it was only conjecture and speculation. But she knew that once the element of the Fallen was added into the equation, conjecture could easily become tragedy. Where would she and John turn next? Who else would listen?

The vodka warmed her, and she felt her body loosen the kinks it had acquired during the day. She was tired, too. Downing the last of her drink, Cotten set the glass on the nightstand and crawled under the covers. When she clicked off the TV with the remote, the room fell into darkness and almost as quickly, she drifted off.

___

The sharp jangle of the phone ripped Cotten out of a heavy dream that she couldn’t remember. She fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand and switched it on. The digital clock radio display read 3:47.

Cotten lifted the receiver. “Hello.” Her voice was husky with sleep.

“Cotten?”

“John, what is it?” She sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I think … maybe … I’m coming down with something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sick.”

Cotten swung her legs over the bed. “John, open your room door. I’m coming down.”

She dropped the handset onto the base, grabbed her card key from her purse, and headed out the door.

John’s door was ajar, and Cotten pushed it open. The bathroom light was on, but the door closed. “John, are you all right?”

A moment later the door opened and he stood illuminated by the bathroom lighting.

His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, his lips void of color. She touched his forehead. “Jesus Christ, you’re burning up.” Her eyes caught a quick glimpse of pink in the sink and toilet.

Suddenly, he bent forward, covered his mouth with one hand, held his chest with the other, and coughed—a deep rumbling cough. Then he collapsed.